What now?
by stormfirej fowl
Summary: Sherlock is finally home after his 'suicide' in front of his best friend John. His welcome home 'party' is rather unexpected, and Sherlock is at a loss on what to do with his feelings.


John sat at the kitchen table, one hand holding on to a glass of the other gripping the table so tightly, his knuckles turned white. His phone sat menacingly on the table, lighting up with each new message which only meant two things. Either he was going crazy, or he was dreaming. And he clearly wasn't dreaming, he had a pounding headache just because of these messages. He couldn't...he was getting married. He had _tried_ to move on. He thought of Mary, sitting in the living room and back at the phone, which was going insane and buzzing nonstop. Finally, he picked it up and replied.

_John. SH_

_John, open the door. SH_

_John I know you're home, open the door! SH_

_Okay, I'm back, hi, not dead, OPEN THE DOOR. SH_

_John please it's freezing outside, I lost my keys please open the door. SH_

_Is the bell not working? SH_

_Why is the door red? SH_

_JOHN. Freezing here! SH_

**Whoever you are, stop this sick nonsense at once!**

_John...I'm right outside. SH_

_It's me. SH_

_No joke. SH_

_Oh come on John, what would it take! Just open the bloody door already. SH_

**What would happen if I opened the door and you weren't there?**

_I am there, you bloody idiot. SH_

**Stop putting your initials after every single bloody message then, I know who you are!**

_Sorry. But then why won't you open the door?_

John stared at this phone again, before getting up and moving in a sort of trance like state towards the door that had been recently painted red. How did 'Sherlock' know that? He was dead. John had seen him fall.

"John? Is everything alright?" Mary's voice floated from the sitting room. John didn't even bother to answer; he just flung open the door. He was hit by a blast of freezing air, but that didn't matter. What mattered was the man that was standing on his porch steps. He was bundled tightly in a long black coat, wearing a midnight blue scarf. His raven, curly hair was flecked with snowflakes, and he had on black gloves. The man raised his head to look at him and said, clearly, "hello, John."

Sherlock pushed past John and into the warmth of 221B Baker Street.

"It's good to be back, isn't it John?" Sherlock said jovially. John moved slowly toward Sherlock.

"Y-you...you were dead." He said hoarsely.

"Oh…yes. About that I-" Sherlock at least had the good grace to look guilty, but John didn't care. He flung himself onto Sherlock and began punching every bit of exposed skin, which was mostly his face.

"JOHN!" Sherlock yelled, trying to protect his cheekbones and nose from getting _dented_ or something, John didn't care. He only stopped when Mary hurriedly got up from the sofa and pulled John off Sherlock, and made him sit on the armchair. John crossed his arms together and locked his limbs as tightly as he could, while still evil-glaring at Sherlock, who was cowering by the fireplace. He had forgotten how strong the doctor was.

"Who are you?" Mary asked Sherlock, in a state of shock. "Are you...Sherlock Holmes, the one with the hat?" Sherlock nodded his head, choosing to not tell this stranger that the hat wasn't his, but he had already guessed that she was engaged to John by the ring on her finger. "Y" She smiled, before going over to John's side and trying to coax him into a better mood, which rarely worked.

Sherlock turned to look at Mary and said, "Could I have a moment with him? Alone?" After Mary had gone out of the room, albeit unwillingly, Sherlock turned to look at John again. It had been, what, three years since John had last saw Sherlock, and he wasn't taking it well.

"John," Sherlock began. How did you start an explanation like this without sounding too cold? Sherlock did not care for sentiment, but it was John, so…"You see John..." Sherlock began hesitantly, jaw aching from where John had punched it viciously a few moments ago. He was definitely going to be bruised and aching tomorrow.

When Sherlock was done with his lengthy explanation, John had not yet relaxed. He was still sitting with his joints locked together, glaring angrily at Sherlock.

"I don't care how you did it, Sherlock Holmes. I want to know_ why_."

"Why?" Sherlock asked stunned. Why would it matter, _why_? Moriarty had to be stopped before he went on another killing spree. Sherlock had just opened his mouth to say that, but quickly shut it again. It was cold, and distant, and Sherlock had a nasty feeling that John would not appreciate the answer. But at the same time, Sherlock didn't want to reveal anything human about it, for fear that it could be used as blackmail. Mycroft had warned him strictly against it. But again, this was John, so it was the least he could do for his best friend. Sherlock took another deep breathe and started.

"I had to fake my own death because…well not only because Moriarty needed to be stopped, but…"

Sherlock rubbed the bridge of his nose, something that he subconsciously did when he was nervous. He didn't notice, but John did. _Why is he nervous? An explanation to Sherlock is nothing._ John wondered, and got his answer 5 seconds later.

"I did it because of you." Sherlock blurted, looking like he was five.

"Because of me?" John was astonished.

"Y-yes. Moriarty had guns trained on you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. The only way to save your lives was for me to die, so…I did it." Sherlock turned his face, like he could hide himself from what he had just said. _ Stupid! _ His brain exploded. _Feelings = not good. _The voice sounded suspiciously like Mycroft's. _But it's John! _ He argued back, and the voice-that-sounded-a-lot-like-Mycroft did not reply.

He only turned to face John after a lengthy silence and was surprised-pleasantly so-to find him smiling. That was what Sherlock liked best about him. He was quick to anger, but quick to forgive as well. Sherlock turned to hesitantly face him, because the doctor was rather terrifying when he was angry, so when John stood up and walked slowly over to him, Sherlock visibly paled and backed into the wall, one of the only moments he had shown himself to be vulnerable. Thinking that the doctor was going to punch him again, he raised his arms to defend himself (and his cheekbones) and was totally taken by surprise when John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and buried his face into Sherlock's neck.

"God, I missed you so much Sherlock." John mumbled.

Sherlock's brain started running at twice his usual speed. John was hugging him. _Someone_, was **hugging him**. He didn't quite know what to do with his hands, he had only been hugged twice in his entire life, and both were by his mother. He settled on hesitantly wrapping his arms around John as well, and they stayed like that for a while.

"John? John dear, I made tea." It was Mrs Hudson, walking into the living room. "John?" She asked questioningly, looking around the room and finally spotted him in a familiar person's embrace.

_Sherlock Holmes._

Mrs Hudson dropped the teapot, which shattered musically against the floor and shrieked, causing the two to jump apart. Sherlock turned and saw his most favourite landlady standing in the shadow of the doorway and smiled.

"Hello, Mrs Hudson."

Mrs Hudson walked over to him and poked his arm, trying to decide if he was real. When she had confirmed it, she raised the tray-now missing the teapot-and smacked Sherlock across the face, where it was already sore from John's punches.

"Ouch!" Sherlock yelped and tried to back away, but his back was pressed to the wall.

"That was for making me think that you were dead, you bloody dolt." Mrs Hudson said, before smiling and hugging Sherlock tightly. _Here we go again with the hugging, _Sherlock's brain moaned, but he decided he quite liked being hugged. _SHERLOCK! _The Mycroft voice yelled again.

"I'm glad you're back Sherlock."

Sherlock looked around Baker Street before nodding. " Me too."

He had shown enough emotion for a week.

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK HOLMES, BBC VERSION OR SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE'S VERSION. ALL CREDIT GOES TO THEM.**


End file.
